


This Thing They Do

by cynthia_arrow (thesilverarrow)



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/cynthia_arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan and Weevil have a mutually-beneficial arrangement. Snark and hints at inner angst, although this isn't an angsty story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Thing They Do

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Circa some nebulous time mid season one, which means, I think, that they're just a hair underage.
> 
> (2) This story was originally published many, many moons ago on livejournal. I'm merely archiving it here.

Logan has only two rules about this thing they do. The first is that they do it only when he wants to. He places the call, and Weevil comes. The second is that nobody ever speaks Lily's name.   
  
Those rules of Logan's came about organically, worked out by tacit agreement rather than by talking about them, but Weevil laid out his own in no uncertain terms before they ever put their hands on each other (at least in any way that counted). One is that he gets to be in control—always, no matter the physical logistics of the thing. He sets the pace and chooses the means. The other is that when he comes to the house, he always comes and goes through the front door.   
  
"Hey, Mr. E," Weevil says with a nod as he crosses through the pristine, un-lived-in living room, a couple of steps ahead of Logan.  
  
"Good evening, Eli," Aaron replies, in that friendly way he does when he's putting on a facade, when he's not entirely sure what's going on and wants to hide how uneasy he is.   
  
Logan would love to say that this particular look on his father's face is precisely why he's taking Weevil up to his bedroom (and he does tell himself that sometimes), but it's not. If it was, they wouldn't be fucking in his bed at all. But they are, and it's because Logan wants to wake up in a bed that smells of not just sex but Weevil. The scent of him lingers until laundry day, and that's about all he can stand, anyway. Just a few days of feeling owned and surrounded and tied down to the earth, like he's a strong tree with roots that stretch far and deep enough to keep him standing. It's not about Weevil; it's about what he can do.  
  
It's not  _not_  about Weevil either. No one else could do it. And he's pretty sure no one else can give Weevil what he gives him. Why else would the man come running when he calls him, sometimes late a night (even a school night), solitary on the back of his motorcycle, always tired but twitchy, like no matter what's going on on the surface, that sometimes implausibly cool or sometimes dangerously firey exterior, there's something neither firey nor cool going on underneath, but instead an unexpectedly sweet depth to him and a strong tension that shows most in his arms and his thick shoulders.   
  
Logan doesn't know half the shit the man carries on his back—he doesn't ask, and it's not because he doesn't want to know—but this isn't some fucking therapy session. When they talk, they talk smack or they bullshit about all the glossy, glittery things around them in Neptune. Nobody speaks a word about the things that don't shine or the things that shine too bright to be anything but a cover.   
  
"You highlight your fucking hair again?" Weevil says as he perches on the end of the bed to remove his boots.  
  
"Yeah. Thought you liked me pretty." He doesn't bother to hide his smirk. That gets him so much farther with Weevil than anything else, especially before they put their hands on each other.  
  
"Fuck you," he says. "How much did it cost?"  
  
"You really, really don't wanna know."  
  
"Probably not," he says, standing again. No matter what he might decide about who's on top or how this thing goes down, he likes to be undressed, likes Logan's hands all over him, searching and groping. He is the only lover Logan's ever had who finds his hungry, obsessive, sloppy man-handling charming. He usually lets it go on just as long as he wants before he puts an end to it and things suddenly change; Logan becomes a wary bird in his hand that he needs to calm. That's the way they play it—loose and easy until the fire takes over, then Logan is suddenly a lot harder to manage, because Weevil needs him to be.  
  
But right now, everything's straightforward and laid-back. Logan's hands play along the bottom hem of Weevil's t-shirt. He's on his knees at the end of the bed now, but he's still way the hell taller than Weevil. He's pretty sure Weevil gets off on that. Logan meets his eyes and doesn't look away. He sometimes likes to read what's going on in that expression, even when he has no idea what it might be.   
  
Weevil smiles and cocks his head to the side. "You seem extra cocky tonight, even for you. You drunk, Echolls?"  
  
Logan grins and lets his hands wander over Weevil's abs. "Am I normally drunk when I call you?"  
  
"Not in a long time. But you're not normally so…"  
  
Logan grins again. "You afraid you can't handle me on a good day?"  
  
Weevil rolls his eyes. "Hell, anybody can handle your skinny, crazy ass on any day, especially me."  
  
Logan opens his mouth to speak, but Weevil just shoves him back onto the bed, and he can't help but feel this half-nervous, half-excited laughter starting somewhere deep inside him. He doesn't do this. He doesn't invite him over when he's feeling good. He'd never even wondered how it would feel until about an hour ago. It's always bad days that he needs him, those can't-get-out-of-my-head days and can't-get-into-my-head days, days when he wants to claw out of his own skin or spin the world around him into something livable. Today, however, has been just as much a incomprehensible blend of emotions, but they're ones he thinks he can live with. He feels sort of high, and in a way he can't manage with liquor or pills. He doesn't know what it is, and he doesn't know why he called Weevil. He just did.  
  
Weevil isn't holding him down quite yet, so he yanks at Weevil's shirt and arches up so he can sink his teeth into his stomach, his chest, whatever part of his torso he can reach. He loves the way it makes Weevil's abs tighten, and sometimes he even shivers at the contact, like he's finally feeling, like that's what it takes to make the lust finally come over him. Logan sometimes wonders if maybe he doesn't even know he really wants it until he gets Logan into this king-sized bed, attacking him, needing it like this.  
  
"You're gonna be the death of me someday, pretty boy."  
  
Logan's still pulling at his shirt, but he doesn't pull it off, because his lips roll against Weevil's neck, tasting salt and leather. "But such a nice way to go, don't you think?"  
  
Weevil arches away from him a little. "Hold on. Hold on, zippy. You gonna leave me half in and half out of my clothes while we do this?"  
  
"What if I am?"  
  
Weevil laughs. "Okay. Whatever. You're a weird motherfucker, you know."  
  
"I know," Logan says, practically batting his eyelashes at him as he pulls his shirt up over his head and immediately attacks a nipple. Weevil finally stretches himself out over Logan on his hands and knees, letting Logan do whatever the hell he wants, just for a while.   
  
Logan's goal is usually his mouth, probably because it takes the most effort. Logan likes kissing, and he can tell from the way Weevil's lips always work against his that Weevil likes it too, but he's a little more cautious about it, at least about showing that he wants it. He only concedes to kissing Logan (and it is a concession, one of the few he'll show) when he's doing something else, when he can pretend he's focusing on the movement of his hands or his hips and not on the way he's sweeping his tongue inside Logan's mouth and taking his breath. Logan found out a long time ago that there's a reason the man is the leader of his motorcycle gang, and it's not just balls and brawn. He's quick, and he works best when he's got problems coming at him from all sides. So Logan works at the fly of Weevil's pants and nibbles at his jaw at the same time, because Weevil is mesmerizingly hot when he's being forced to multitask.   
  
Weevil allows Logan's lips to slide closer and closer to his, right up over his jaw, before he finally dips his head and crushes their mouths together, but it's only because by this time, he's also trying to kick his pants and boxers to the floor as well as deal with Logan's hand wrapping around his cock, tugging hard. When Logan touches him like this while he's trying to get the rest of his clothes off, he always makes this grunting noise of surprise and concentration and irritation all at once, but those noises turn to something almost like a chuckle when he gets his bearings again, when he's naked and hard on top of Logan, unimpeded by clothes and now completely in control despite Logan's wandering hands.  
  
Weevil tears his mouth out of the kiss and prods Logan's head back, burrowing his face into the hollow of his throat.  
  
He says, "New cologne?"  
  
"Mmm hmm," Logan murmurs as Weevil's fingers flip open his fly and dig into his waistband to pull off his jeans. Only his jeans; he has sort of a thing (that he'd never admit to, so Logan doesn't mock him, because he's got a thing for it, too) for seeing him in his boxer-briefs, touching him through them until they're both so damn horny they can't function.   
  
"Nice. But you know you don't need to drown in the stuff to get me to jump you."  
  
He grinds the heel of his hand into Logan's erection, just to see him squirm.   
  
"Fuck you," Logan groans. "Damn. God. Yeah, fuck you. It's just a habit. I always wear cologne."  
  
"And you always smell like the inside of a fashion magazine. Too much. Cologne, aftershave, soap, shampoo, deodorant. Like a fucking drug store."  
  
Logan's watching his face, how even though his voice is rough with lust and feigned crankiness, his expression twists into a self-satisfied smirk, and there's maybe even a little affectionate amusement underneath it all. Weevil likes that he's too much, and Logan really likes that he likes it. So Logan gives in to the urge to play octopus: he suddenly wraps his arms and legs around him, pliable and strong, and pulls him down on top of him as tight as he can get him as he sticks his tongue halfway down his throat.   
  
Weevil surrenders, lets himself be pulled under like that, for blissful minute or two, as Logan gropes and tongue-kisses and squirms against him, then he jerks back, hands firmly holding Logan's hips still, even if all his weight's still on him. He's not pissed, not by a longshot, just ready to make his declaration. This is Logan's favorite part, the guessing. He honestly never knows what Weevil's going to want, not until he says it.   
  
But tonight, Weevil simply stares down at him, like he's studying him intently, deliberation playing out in his features so subtly only Logan would recognize it. After he makes up his mind (Logan sees his eyes slide shut momentarily, and his hands unclench a little), he doesn't say a word, which shocks Logan almost as much as how he just falls back over his body. Logan's instinct is to wrap himself back around him again, just to get some kind of response from him. This is one of those times his silence makes him nervous. He re-commences his attack of lips and hands, and his hips grind and drag, a rhythm that keeps him moving, makes him dig deeper and deeper into Weevil's hips, begging, urging, asking, pushing him into responding in kind.  
  
But Weevil soon pulls out of the kiss and lets his mouth drift to Logan's ear as his hands come up and hold (if nothing else) Logan's head still as he speaks in his ear:  
  
"Maybe I should be a little clearer, huh? You got me, Echolls. You got me for whatever you want tonight. You ain't gotta try to work me up like this."  
  
Logan's a little bewildered, so he responds, cocky: "Maybe that's what I want."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Logan's hands keep moving, but then he can't help letting the question fall from his lips: "You're serious?"  
  
"I'm totally in your hands, pretty boy."  
  
He's not even thinking about what to do yet. He only knows he has to act fast if he doesn't want Weevil to get impatient. So he immediately presses up into his right shoulder and rolls them until he's on top. Sometimes Weevil likes it like this, with Logan in the dominant position, but he's always called the shots. He's never actually given him free rein before. It's ridiculously hot, him laying there under Logan's thighs, waiting.   
  
Logan climbs back off him and plants himself between his legs. His tongue dips into his navel first, and Weevil laughs, and he keeps laughing as Logan's tongue traces a path up the center of his chest and then over to one of his ears, up around the shell. Logan lets his hips fall down against Weevil's, pressing their cocks together, as his mouth moves back down to his chest.   
  
From there, Logan looks up at him and says, cautious and low, "So, do you always do the fucking, or do you ever let yourself get fucked?"  
  
A knowing grin slowly spreads over Weevil's face. "I should've known. I should've known that's what you've been waiting for."  
  
"Nope," Logan says, worrying a nipple between his teeth. Softly, he says, "I call you because I like to take it. Tonight, though…"  
  
When Weevil doesn't say anything, Logan rolls them over again, putting Weevil firmly on top. He licks his way back into Weevil's mouth again, waiting, adrenaline coursing through him now. Maybe Logan's testing him; he doesn't know. Maybe he's trying to get him to take it back, flip him over on the mattress and make him regret the suggestion.   
  
Finally, Weevil draws back from the kiss and says, "I do. Sometimes. Very rarely." Then he grins. "Mainly…well, mainly because nobody else but you would be crazy enough to ask, you know."  
  
"Well, I'm asking. Just this one time."  
  
"You're  _asking_?" he says, and Logan can hear the amusement in his voice, the way challenge is just waiting to slip in, pounce like a wild animal. Weevil might like him compliant, but that doesn't mean he wants it to be too easy.  
  
So Logan says, "What? You need to be wooed? Should I go down to the wine cellar and get a bottle of expensive champagne? I bet my mom's got some Barry Manilow albums I could put on for us. Or maybe Barry White's more your speed."  
  
Weevil just shakes his head as he suddenly begins peeling Logan out of his boxer-briefs. "It's a wonder anybody'll let you stick your dick in them. You like this with everybody or is it just me who takes all nature of shit from you?"  
  
"You know," he says, "you are so fucking pretty when you pretend you hate me."  
  
"Fuck you. I do hate you." He settles himself on his back and waits for Logan to climb back over him, naked now.  
  
"You hate a lot of things about me, but this," Logan strokes himself slowly, "this, you don't hate."  
  
Weevil's eyes are dark, watching him. He likes to watch. But Weevil's voice is serious, like it always is, somehow; and too honest (like Logan's):   
  
"And you'd still be perfectly fine with me fucking your brains out once a week if your dick was the only thing I could fucking stand about you, wouldn't you?"  
  
Logan stops there, crouched over him, and for a split second, he feels something dark wash over him, threaten his equilibrium, but instead he just laughs and lets his lips fall against Weevil's neck, kissing and sucking again.  
  
A second later, Weevil pushes him up and off him. "Hey."  
  
"What?" Logan snaps.  
  
"You think I'd let you do what you're about to do if it was all about you being the only warm body I could get my hands on?"  
  
"Eli," he says, letting a little condescension creep into his voice. "I really, really don't need a middle-school self-esteem lesson from you."  
  
"Obviously you do," he replies, refusing to back down from his stare. Weevil never backs down, and that's as frustrating as it is comforting. "Do I treat you like you're garbage?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me."  
  
"What the fuck, dude," he huffs.  
  
Weevil suddenly grips him by the arms. "I'm fucking serious, man. Have I ever treated you like you're a worthless piece of shit?"  
  
"No."  
  
"No. And it's because you're not." His mouth sets in a hard line, and he huffs out a breath. "Now," he says, releasing his arms, "if we're done with this segment of Oprah, would you get down to business already."  
  
A smile warms Logan's face, and he sways over to pull the lube out of the bedside table. "You're such a sweet talker."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"No, fuck you. Like, seriously. Up the ass and everything."  
  
"You're enjoying this a little too much."  
  
"I always enjoy my time with you, Mr. Navarro."  
  
The banter typically goes on between them at all stages of the fucking, sometimes even when Weevil's balls-deep inside him and he's about to come apart at the seams. But sometimes it happens that the banter disappears; either it's gets cut off because everything gets too hard and fast (and intense, although they'd never use that word) or it simply dissipates because what they're doing isn't at all about that impeccably timed give-and-take. It is most of the time, the sex this perfectly logical extension of the way they speak to one another, but sometimes it's not. Logan thinks sometimes that maybe the other sorts of sex are still an extension of them, and the quiet, wordless fucking is the only way they can communicate some things.   
  
It's easier that way, anyway. Everything's always been easier between them than he would've thought it could be. Logan's surprised at how fast Weevil is opening up to his fingers, given how rarely he probably does this. Of course, Logan's had a finger inside before, every so often when he blows him, but never with the thought of really stretching him in preparation for fucking him. He doesn't do that very often, though. Weevil typically likes to be the active one; he's not so keen on laying back and being examined in any serious way. He doesn't like to be stared at too long with Logan's serious brown eyes.  
  
But Weevil's eyes are closed now, so he looks. Weevil is not a skinny guy, and he's not cut. Strong, tough, hard in all the right places, but he's also soft under Logan's hands—his belly, his thighs, his ass, his shoulders. He likes that about him; it seems to fit him, somehow. He wonders how his own body feels, all ill-defined muscle and sharp bones. He thinks his body makes sense for him too, in its own way—a frame that should be sturdy but simply looks and feels precariously balanced, thin, no protection from anything. Anyway, it looks like there's nothing to protect, and that's the way he wants it. He needs people to believe there's nothing soft and vulnerable there. He envies Weevil his ability to be this badass with a heart of gold. Logan's not open enough to seem acceptably tortured, and he's not enough of a badass to make anyone believe he's anything more than a rich boy who craves attention. He knows he seems like a snapping, angry dog. It's because any attempt of his to look genuine would only seem pathetic.   
  
Weevil's suddenly looking at him again, trying to get his attention. "I'm good, Echolls. I ain't that fucking fragile."  
  
"Sorry," he mumbles.  
  
"Time to come up out of that mixed-up head of yours."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Weevil snorts as he takes the lube up off the bed and before Logan knows it, he's slicking him up, bringing him back to being just as hard as he was before.   
  
"How do you want me, boss?" Weevil says.  
  
"Stomach?"  
  
"If you're gonna do it, you might as well do it all the way, you know. Don't ask, just take what you want."  
  
"You know, Weevil, one would swear you actually  _wanted_  me to fuck you."  
  
"One would swear I'm gonna throw you on the floor and fuck you dry in about ten seconds if you don't do something about that impressive hard-on you're sporting and my newly-lubed ass."  
  
Logan raises his eyebrows, and he can't help it. He giggles. And when Weevil's façade cracks a little, he giggles some more.  
  
"My God," Weevil says with a grin. "You know, this is why I'm usually the one in charge. You have got to be the flakiest motherfucker I've ever fucked around with. Do you wanna do this or not?"  
  
Logan swallows down the rest of his laughter and pushes Weevil back down onto the mattress and prods his hips into opening wide. "Just for that, Pedro, you're gonna have to watch me boning you."  
  
"Then show me what you got," he says, and Logan just about wavers when he sees the openly seductive look on Weevil's face. Almost.  
  
The one thing Weevil has never given him shit about, at least not directly, is how quick a trigger he has. He makes up for it by having an equally quick recovery time. Anyway, it normally doesn't matter much—because he's on the bottom or he's getting blow jobs that aren't nearly as tiring as they might be with any other guy. But this is the one time his body's quick response annoys and halfway embarrasses him, because from the moment he finally gets inside Weevil well enough that he can thrust and Weevil isn't grimacing in discomfort anymore, he feels like he's halfway to coming already.  
  
Weevil lies back against the pillows, arms over his head, taking him at his word: he watches him intently, watches the arch of his back and the way his dick looks sliding into him. When Logan finally gets into a rhythm, Weevil idly lets a hand trail down to stroke his cock as he watches Logan getting himself off.   
  
Logan wants to moan and swear and demand so many things, but he isn't at all sure how well that would go over. It doesn't feel right, not with the way things usually are between them. Besides, he thinks he doesn't need that kind of working himself up, not with Weevil's eyes burning him up like that. He seems to enjoy seeing him shudder and thrust.   
  
"Goddamn, you're pretty," Weevil says. "Like, seriously hot."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Makes me wanna have you pull out so I can fuck you."  
  
"Hell, no. I'm-- _fuck_ \--I'm gonna keep on fucking you just as hard as I want, and you're gonna have to take it."  
  
"You haven't even come close to fucking me hard yet."  
  
Logan knows he's being goaded, but he's also being given permission, so he claps the headboard harder and drives into him. "Like that?"  
  
"Oh yeah."  
  
"You like that?"  
  
"Fuck yeah. C'mon, make me feel it."  
  
Logan fucks him harder, but his mind already flashes over all the things it normally does when he's trying not to come. It isn't working all that well considering the way Weevil lies there underneath him, hips rising and pushing forward to meet his, his dick in his hand, his head tilted back.  
  
Logan says, "I wanna see you get yourself off."  
  
Weevil immediately starts to stroke himself harder, more purposefully. "I think I can mange that. Fuck, that feels… Damn. Didn't know you had it in you."  
  
Logan throws his head back and laughs. "Of course you did. Or you wouldn't have let me do it."  
  
"You think you know me so well, don't you?"  
  
"I know you were full of shit before when you said-- _Jesus_ \--when you said—oh fuck—said that nobody else asks. You just don't- you don't—ah, holy fuck, Weevil. I bet it's that you can't- you can't find anybody who can just fucking make"—thrust—"you"—thrust—"take it."  
  
Weevil gives him that same face he normally does when he doesn't want to concede a point to a trash-talking, over privileged 09er, but that face won't hold. His eyes go even darker, almost glazed over now, and Logan thrusts slower, harder, twisting his hips, and he watches Weevil jerk himself even faster right before he comes over his fist.   
  
He gasps as he does, but he still manages to say, "Come on, baby. Now."  
  
Logan closes his eyes and just lets everything go. He loves orgasms, the sharp break of tense pain into pleasure before he floats outside of his body for a moment then comes back in full force, the release washing over him like heat and water and light, like he's drowning it in, pushing up out of it, back toward that sharpness he needs. He keeps his hips moving, driving deep as he comes and comes with all of Weevil's tight heat surrounding, squeezing, pulling.  
  
If they have any rituals other than the one about initiating positions, it's their habit of falling into silence after it's over. Even on days where they're playful about it, they lapse into quiet as they catch their breath and fall away from each other, stretching out on their backs beside each other on the big bed. Tonight is no different.   
  
After an appropriate length of time silent, Logan says quietly, "I meant it. I don't mind always being the one getting fucked."  
  
"I know. I know exactly why you call me."  
  
"You make it sound fucked up and weird."  
  
"That's not how I meant it at all. And, anyway, I'm not sure I know why you called me tonight, so I obviously don't know everything."  
  
"Can I get you to sign a statement to that effect?"  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"Not now. I'm fucking exhausted."  
  
"Me, too."  
  
Logan wants to ask why, but he doesn't. Here, it doesn't matter anyway.  
  
When Weevil sits up a few minutes later, he's about to struggle back into his clothes when Logan says, "You swim?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Do you swim? I have a pool."  
  
"I know that. I swim. But I don't have any trunks with me, obviously."  
  
"I meant skinny-dipping."  
  
"Isn't that something people do  _before_  they have sex. You know, get a peek at the goods."  
  
"Well, I do like your goods."  
  
Weevil shakes his head, rolling his eyes and smiling. As the smile fades, it leaves a questioning look on his face until he seems to realize Logan's being serious.   
  
Weevil sighs and says, "Your father's not going to call the cops on my naked latino ass, is he?"  
  
"Not if I remind him that I've seen other naked latino asses in that pool, almost all of them belonging to supermodels he probably didn't know the names of."  
  
Weevil wrinkles his nose at him. There are plenty of times he gives Logan shit as his subtle way of commiserating about Logan's home life, but there are equally as many times he keeps his mouth shut. Tonight, he shakes his head and snorts and watches Logan crawl off the bed and slip back into his t-shirt and underwear. So he does the same.  
  
They creep down the stairs, back into the silent house—dark, with just one lamp on, the one by the front door, where Weevil's motorcycle helmet sits on a low table.   
  
As Logan waits for Weevil to creep through the house to get his helmet, he looks out over the dark backyard. He doesn't even flip on the floodlights; the moonlight is better, more forgiving. Weevil waits while he pulls a bottle of scotch out of a secret cubby in the pantry, the one his mother doesn't know he knows about. Then Logan holds the patio door open and watches Weevil slip outside into the cool night air, helmet in one hand and jeans and boots in the other. 


End file.
